


Call of the Discs

by Flare438



Series: The DreamSMP Trilogy [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Dream Demon, Dream's POV, DreamSMP - Freeform, From the very beginning, Nightmares, Sort Of, The Disc War, also Demon!George, my take on the dreamsmp story :o, so buckle in, with some creative choices(;
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28919334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flare438/pseuds/Flare438
Summary: Before the main events of the SMP Wars, Dream makes a deal with a demon.|Dream slides the mask over his face. “I don’t recall paying for a therapy session.” He pauses to consider. “Did you put it on my tab?”The voice is tired. “I long for the day when you’ll show me an ounce of respect.”“I don’t respect demons.”“The pot calls the kettle black, I’m afraid.”Dream tsks dryly. “Touché.”
Series: The DreamSMP Trilogy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2121057
Kudos: 2





	Call of the Discs

Dream always seems to find himself here.

In the darkest hours of the night, distorted whispers poke and prod at his unconscious mind. Seductive and lilting like sirens, they lure him out of bed with promises of treasures—of uncharted land and untapped power. 

The lust of a captivated sailor leads him through his castle. It guides him down the marble corridors with bare-feet, uses his calloused hands to pry open a set of familiar steel doors.

Somewhere between sleep and waking, Dream heeds their delicate instructions. 

The weapons room is an array of glinting metals—of netherite swords and diamond axes. They line the walls like wallpaper, sharpened edges a whisper away from sliced flesh and fatal blows. There’s a sense of history that envelopes the dull, tile flooring: every footfall a recollection of dead men’s final words. Hollow victories echo from calvaries lost to time’s beckoning hands. 

Even in this state, Dream relishes the familiar _clinks_ and _clangs_ of metal on metal.

They ground him to an unstable world. 

Here—they unveil fate’s plans for him. 

The joints in his fingers cramp up uselessly as he ties knot after knot. The pattern of rope and loops are ingrained like the lyrics of a song into his muscle memory. Attached to them are various forms of weapons: swords, spears, tridents. They hang from the ceiling on hooks like lanterns in a cavern, swinging helplessly in the wake of Dream’s antics. 

After he’s secured the last knot, he climbs down his ladder.

The floor is cool to the touch. Dream absently watches the chills that flourish down his arms as he positions himself below his creation. 

In the moonlight, the gleaming tips of his blades wink affectionately. 

_Swish, clink_.

He closes his eyes. 

_Swish, clink_.

And in his mind, he welcomes the sounds of his dreamscape. 

_Swish_ —

_“Dream, heads up!”_

_An enderpearl shoots through the air like a rocket._

_Dream, nine years old and unafraid of most anything the world has yet to offer, watches the glimmering ball fly past him with calculated boredom. In a split second decision, he takes the necessary side-step to avoid the pearl, and it narrowly misses his shoulder on a trajectory path to a nearby birch tree._

_SPLAT._

_It slides down the trunk in clumps of green goo._

_From the purple mist that forms, a scruffy boy appears, sporting a wolfish grin and a victory whoop._

_Dream grimaces. Holds back an eye-roll. “Sapnap, you_ have _to stop—”_

_“DREAM!”_

_His instincts don’t save him this time._

_Another boy releases an enderpearl, and this one has no chance of missing. It lands with an impressive POP directly on Dream’s spinal cord, and Dream doesn’t have time to avoid the scrawny body that falls out of this mist._

_The boys tumble to the ground, and Dream meets a mouthful of dirt as wide-framed goggles dig into his shoulder blade. Grass tickles his cheek maddeningly. “George,” he muffles around several blades of grass, “you’re an_ idiot _.”_

_His friend giggles above him. “Your_ mum’s an idiot _.”_

_The two break out into a brawl of tiny fists and prepubescent insults, and the third boy, newly recovered from his encounter with the birch tree, makes his way over to the scuffle. He stands above them devilishly. “Well, boys,” he declares, tapping an elbow with an open palm, “you know what this means.”_

_A flurry of protests emerge from the tangle of limbs and clothing, but—_

_“DOOOOOGPILE!”_

_And with a manic shout, all three boys descend into the rampant chaos of a childhood afternoon’s playtime._

_Above them, the summer sun glares harshly, covering the rolling hills with spiraling heatwaves and the orange hue of golden hour. A breeze tickles the hay bales and relieves the simmering livestock, earning a chorus of farm noises that brings the quiet ambience to a gentle crescendo._

_In the middle of it all, Dream finds himself a spectator to his own childhood memory. Out of body, placed cross-legged on the top of his old barn’s roof, he watches his friends work together to pin him playfully to the ground. His younger self writhes in the green and yellow grass, bursting with uncontrollable laughter as Sapnap and George tickle him relentlessly._

_It moves something within him._

_“A happy childhood makes for a happy adulthood,” a voice observes coyly. Dream stiffens. “Or so I’ve been told.”_

_He doesn’t have to guess what happens next._

_Before him, the summer trees begin to wither and decay. The bright green leaves detach themselves from their branches and float to the ground, blackening before they reach the dirt. One by one, he and his friends fade out of existence._

_Predictable._

_The voice tries again. “So if that’s the case,” it muses, voice switching from one side of Dream’s head to the other, “then what happened to_ you _?”_

_Dream thumbs the mask at his belt. The voice is always the same—always indistinguishable, genderless. In this form, it’s more in Dream’s imagination than outside of him. He can feel it rattling around in his brain. Searching._

_Dream slides the mask over his face. “I don’t recall paying for a therapy session.” He pauses to consider. “Did you put it on my tab?”_

_The voice is tired. “I long for the day when you’ll show me an ounce of respect.”_

_“I don’t respect demons.”_

_“The pot calls the kettle black, I’m afraid.”_

_Dream tsks dryly. “Touché.”_

_The voice falls silent around him. Behind Dream’s eyes, the tentacles of pressure relent into a dull ache. There’s a slight breeze, and though he won’t be able to remember what, Dream knows something has been taken from him._

_A presence appears at his side._

_“Hello, Clay.”_

_It’s George’s voice that greets him._

_Dream is all at once very grateful for his mask._

_“This is much better,” says his imitated friend. “I’ve always liked this body. It’s very...nimble.”_

_Dream risks a glance at the demon. It mirrors his position on the roof: George’s legs are delicately crossed, one hand draped across them, the other propped behind it for support. George’s goggles are a mockery on its face._

_It even wears his friend’s careful smile._

_Still, there’s one thing it can’t ever seem to get right._

_“Do you think this body is nimble, Clay?” George’s eyes question him playfully._

_The color is there—an intricate mix of brown and gold._

_But they always lack his humanity._

_Dream looks away. “Can we just get to why I’m here?”_

_“Ever the charmer,” George’s voice chides. In his peripherals, Dream watches it fumble with the goggles on its head. It pulls them down over its eyes, then back across its hairline. Dream shoots it a withering look. “Fine,” it groans. “But this one’s going to cost you.”_

_That perks Dream’s interest. “What’d you find?”_

_It pauses to look at him. A cheshire grin reveals George’s white teeth. “More than you can even fathom.”_

_Dream’s heart pounds in his chest. “Name your price.”_

_The denom tuts. “Now, now.” It transitions to a standing position. It doesn’t use its legs like a human—just kind of...teleports onto its feet. It teeters along the edge of the roof, crossing it like a tightrope. George’s token blue shirt billows in the wind. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”_

_“I’ll do whatever it takes,” Dream says immediately._

_“I’m sure you will.” George’s arms splay like a bird in the wind. “But I have to warn you, Clay—this one isn’t for the faint of heart.”_

_Dream narrows his eyes. “Just tell me what you want, and it’s yours.”_

_The demon stops. Tilts its head to stare at Dream. “Promise?”_

_A trickle of unease crawls into Dream’s insides. George’s bronze gaze taunts him in a way he doesn’t understand._

_“I promise.”_

_A smile oozes across the demon’s face. It removes the goggles from its head._

_“For now, then, we’ll say you owe me a favor.”_

_It tosses the goggles over the roof. They fall soundlessly to the ground, frames gleaming with forgotten sunlight._

_An enderpearl appears in their place. It glows almost neon in George’s pale hand._

_On the inside, a purple mist billows and swirls._

_Dream watches it flow._

_“But until then—”_

_It bounces the enderpearl into the air. The orb explodes in a wonderful show of mauves and violets,_

_“—let’s go visit our trophy.”_

_Before Dream can react, a gentle haze builds in his vision. Around them, the scene begins to crumble at the edges. Blackness spills into the muted atmosphere._

_Swish, clink._

_The decayed forest disappears under the cloud of mist. It envelopes the roof, the demon, Dream—swallowing him whole and stealing his breath. His lungs erupt into flames around the mist._

_Time slips away like a shadow. Dream’s senses leave him completely. He’s bodiless, now—a ghost. Remnants of a conscience._

_Then—light._

_They’re in a forest. He can’t see the demon, but it’s there. It’s part of him._

_“Look around, Dream.”_

_A log cabin is in front of them. Through a glass window, Dream can barely make out a scrawny blonde boy squatting on the wooden floor._

_Swish, clink._

_There’s a half-finished jukebox before him, and he tinkers recklessly with a pick-axe._

_Two black discs sit at his feet._

_“This is what we’ve been waiting for.”_

_Swish—_

_Somehow, Dream can hear their songs._

_The melody coils around him like a hungry snake. Visions of a new empire flash before him: reds and blues of a flag flying half-mast, overarching walls towered by smoke and spiraling arrows._

_An ocean of want looms over Dream. Drops of it dampen his entire being._

_“What are they?” He breathes._

_The demon’s laugh is low and rumbling. It’s the only sound in the world._

_“Opportunity.”_

__—clink.

**Author's Note:**

> hi lol. thanks for reading! this has been something i've been wanting to do for a long time, because i think the dreamsmp has SO much potential in a narrative format like this. i've been on a long hiatus from writing, but these silly little minecraft wars have somehow re-kindled my love for storytelling.
> 
> anyway, this is really just a project i've been working on in my free time for fun, but i appreciate any and all feedback! thanks for coming along for the ride(: 
> 
> \- flare


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